


Had We But Sheep Enough, And Time

by Alobear, marginaliana



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Time Travel, Victorian Farm era, WIP Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 09:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15288105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alobear/pseuds/Alobear, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: On the fall equinox Alex stumbles across a mysterious letter - when he, Ruth, and Peter traipse down to the standing stones for an interesting attempt at a folk ritual, he discovers that what the letter tells him might just be real.





	1. September

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Alobear for the amazing art, and to LizM for the read-through. I am indebted to [Shropshire folk-lore, ed. by C.S. Burne](https://archive.org/details/shropshirefolkl01jackgoog) for much of the historical flavor.

The plaster walls of the upstairs bedroom were falling to bits already, but it was made even worse by the aggressive application of two flat-edged scrapers. Despite the kerchief tied over Alex's nose and mouth, the dust was collecting in a fine spray across his cheekbones, in his eyelashes and, presumably, his eyebrows as well. Quite possibly he looked like a cross between Father Christmas and Dick Turpin, but the only one there to see was Peter and he looked just as absurd, if not more so.

Alex's hands were filthy too, but if he was careful he could hitch up the top edge of the kerchief to wipe his eyes with the flap underneath, and that was enough to let him carry on without expiring. The heat of the summer had passed its peak and they'd opened the windows, which didn't hurt either.

The sound of methodical scraping was peaceful, an echo of his and Peter's first dig together back in Scotland in their university days. As the junior-most students, they'd done a hell of a lot of meticulous brushing-away of dust; the bedroom walls didn't merit such careful handling – thank goodness – but as he knelt here on the floorboards it felt much the same. Meditative. A chance to reflect on who might have been the last person to touch what his fingers were touching. Not just how the thing had been made but how its last owners might have felt when they looked at it or smelled it.

Though hopefully they wouldn't have been smelling then what Alex was smelling now.

Eventually Peter broke the silence with a sigh, tugged his kerchief down a little and said, "It's bound to be about time for supper."

Alex hummed in agreement.

"I could go and see if Ruth has it almost ready."

"Lazy sod," Alex said, but he waved Peter off without any actual irritation. Peter chucked his scraper into the bucket and hauled himself to his feet with an exaggerated heave of breath. His feet thumped solidly down the stairs.

Alex contemplated taking a break himself, but the bit of wall in front of him had almost come away entirely and so he carried on working at it, getting one corner of the scraper under a loose flap of plaster and levering it upwards all in one chunk. Something behind the plaster crackled. Alex frowned and leaned forward to poke at it more carefully, wedging the point of the scraper in behind the next chunk until he could hear the rustle again. This time when he levered it up, something fell out.

It was an envelope, yellowed with age and then dusted white with dried plaster remains. Alex felt a thrill run through him at the discovery, the familiar excitement of old/new, of history and future knowledge all wrapped up into one. He picked the envelope up, turned it over.

His own name was written on the front.

Alex dropped it in surprise, then cursed himself for carelessness and picked it up again with caution. A soft brush of his thumb cleared away the worst of the plaster over the writing. It still said what he'd thought it said. _Alex Langlands_ and then, underneath, _22 September, 2007_.

It was today's date. Alex stared at it in bafflement. Perhaps this was a joke, some sort of unorthodox setup by the producer for a segment on time capsules. But this wasn't supposed to be that sort of show, and anyway he really couldn't see how they'd have managed it – the paper was old, flaking away at the edges, and the ink was faded. Moreover, the wall certainly hadn't been re-plastered recently, so how would they even have put it there? It was the outside wall, so there wasn't a way to come at it any other way… was there?

Eventually he turned the envelope over again and tested the edge of the flap with his thumb. It came loose easily and appeared not to have been sealed at all. Alex hesitated another moment, then opened the flap and slid out the piece of paper inside. It was a single folded sheet; he flattened it out and read the short note written there.

_Dear Alex,_

_Your first chicken's name was Horatio. You once licked a painting by Elias Childe in the Tate just to see if you could._

_What you need to know is:_

_1\. Believe it. It's true._  
_2\. Watch out for the hay rick._  
_3\. When Peter says it's real, you'll know._

There was a blot there, as if the pen had been held over the paper slightly too long. But the writer seemed to have decided against saying anything else of significance, because all it said after that was _Sincerely yours, Alex_.

A chill went up his spine. Horatio the chicken… he supposed that the producers might have asked his mum or his brother about that. There were probably even pictures of Horatio in an album somewhere. But licking the Childe. No one could possibly know that – could they? He'd never told anyone. Or if someone in his family had guessed, however unlikely that was, it was hardly something they would have shared with a television producer. 

"Alex!" 

Peter's voice sounded from the bottom of the stairs. Alex jumped, nearly toppled over sideways and then caught himself with one elbow against the wall. Some of it crumbled under the weight and another cloud of white powder bloomed in the air. He found a patch of wall that seemed relatively solid and leant his forehead down to rest against it, trying to get his heart to stop hammering.

Peter called his name again before he'd quite managed it, but the pause was enough that he could tug down the edge of the kerchief and shout back. "Is it supper yet?"

"Yes, Ruth says to come down." 

"Coming."

Alex folded the letter back into the envelope and wiped it clean with the inside edge of his kerchief. An attempt to do something similar with himself failed utterly, but he took the letter with him downstairs and then out into the yard at the back of the house where Ruth had left them a bucket of water to wash with. Alex set the letter aside – weighed down carefully by a rock – and brushed himself off aggressively, even going so far as to lean over and sluice his head with a dipper of water.

Eventually he decided he'd pass muster and went back inside again. Beside the door were hooks where their coats hung, and after a moment's consideration Alex tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his own. He knew he ought to share this find with Peter and Ruth, ought to get an outside perspective. But the whole thing was strange enough that he wondered whether they'd believe him. He didn't even know if he believed himself.

As he went into the kitchen, the smell of Ruth's stew enfolded him like a blanket. There was no range as yet and so she'd made it over a small fire in the place where the range would go. Alex's mouth nearly watered with anticipation.

He made a conscious effort to force the whole letter situation out of his mind; there were no cameras tonight, but Peter knew him well enough to sense any preoccupation. After a while it was easy enough, because the food was as good as it smelled and the company was better, and Ruth had managed to procure a bottle of local beer just to give them a miniature seasonal celebration.

"I think we're coming along nicely," she said, pouring out the beer into mugs. "If you can get the bedroom ready for plastering in another few days we can film that, and the sheep have settled in nicely."

"We'll have to get a ram in soon," said Alex, and they segued into a discussion of their hopes for sheep breeding that lasted through the rest of the meal.

After supper Ruth proposed an equinox ceremony that she'd read about. "Local legend," she said. "It's supposed to reveal something important about yourself. I'm afraid the records aren't any more specific."

"A vision of our true love," Peter said lightly. "That's the usual thing, isn't it?"

"I expect yours will be a vision of a large pie, then," said Alex, and grinned when Peter turned up his nose in exaggerated offense.

They doused the fire and closed up the show cottage for the night, then put on their coats and traipsed down to the stone circle at the far end of the westernmost field. The night had gone sharply cold and the moon cast a pale and glimmering light down over them. Alex's breath created filmy white clouds in the air; he wouldn't have been surprised to find everything covered with frost in the morning, though it was only September. 

The circle was half-hidden from the field by trees, forbidding and full of shadows. But once they stepped inside it, the sky above was clear, perfectly round like the lip of a well from inside. It felt like they _could_ be in a well, somewhere down deep looking up to a sky they couldn't hope to reach. Alex shivered. 

Peter stepped close so that their shoulders brushed together. It was a comforting solidity. "You all right?" he asked, voice hushed. Then, a little louder, "Should we have brought a chicken to sacrifice?"

" _Really,_ Peter," said Ruth.

"Pig? Goat? Spider?"

Ruth smacked him; Alex could feel Peter's shoulder shaking against his, half from the impact and half from laughter.

"This is a serious ceremony," she said.

"What about a bunch of carrots?" said Alex.

"Don't _you_ start," said Ruth, but he could hear the laughter in her voice.

"What should we be doing, then?" Peter asked, sobering a little.

"Stand here around the westernmost stone," Ruth said briskly. "Not that one, this one. Join hands."

Alex shuffled towards her and took his hands out of his pockets. He hadn't thought to bring gloves and he felt the cold for one bright, painful moment before they all clasped hands, Peter's warm and a little hesitant to his right, Ruth's smaller – and gloved, sensibly – and more confident in its grasp to his left. 

"Close your eyes," Ruth said. Alex took a deep breath and obeyed. They stood for a moment not speaking; Alex could hear all the noises of the night, the calls of owls and the chittering of something in a hedge. The wind whistled high over the field and then curled up under the leaves of the trees that bracketed the stone circle, an eddying sound like waves.

"This is the blessed autumn night," Ruth said, lifting her voice, "when palest stones shall give us light. The longer we live, the more we see; the new, the old, come all to me."

Something changed. 

Alex opened his eyes. It was dark – he thought for one stupefied moment that a cloud must have passed over the moon, but there hadn't been a cloud for miles and anyway this wasn't the right kind of darkness, not the mottled wisp of light passing through the cloud but something thicker. It could have been the underside of a blanket spread across the sky, broken only by pinpricks – it took a moment for Alex to recognize them as stars. 

The moon was gone.

The only thing that kept Alex from panicking was the fact that he could still feel Ruth's hand in his left hand and Peter's in his right. He held on tight. "Ruth?" It came out more uneven than he'd have liked. 

"I don't—"

"Where is the moon?" Peter said. "It was— wasn't it?"

"It was," Alex said. He took a deep breath – the air rushing into his lungs was warm, comforting, but suddenly he realized that this wasn't right either. "It's warmer, too."

"It is," Ruth said, sounding astonished but not frightened. "Flipping heck, how did that happen?"

"The stone," Alex said, not even quite clear himself as to what he meant. He leant forward carefully and found the stone right where he'd expected it, close enough to rest his forehead. "It's—"

"Bugger the stone, where is the fucking _moon_?" Peter said, the profanity sharp and unexpected in his mouth. Before either of them could answer they heard the sound of footsteps coming across the field. Alex simultaneously wanted to let go so that he could turn and face whoever it was, and wanted to stay exactly where he was for fear that letting go of anyone's hand would send him into something even stranger. In the end all he did was twist his head around – as if they could see anything in this darkness. And then he _could_ see, because one of the people coming through the trees was carrying a lantern, illuminating the stone circle with a warm, yellow glow. And—

"Mr. Acton?"


	2. September

It both was and was not Mr. Acton, that much became clear on the walk up to the manor. The man's face in the lamplight was thinner, his nose a bit less broad. More to the point, he was younger – at least a decade and probably closer to two. Not as young as Rupert but certainly middle-aged. But the resemblance was there, unmistakable. 

He'd introduced himself as Augustus Wood Acton. Alex didn't quite know what that meant, in terms of the form of address or in terms of _anything else_ to be honest. He supposed that he'd carry on using 'Mr. Acton' in his head, at least for now, although it was almost certainly wrong.

The men with him were unfamiliar – two of them spoke in low murmurs that had the unmistakable twang of the local accent, far more than anyone Alex had met so far. They had a local's instant, easy familiarity with the land, too, moving through the hedges and the fields with confidence. It was nearly impossible to fake that, Alex thought, which made it all the more surprising that he didn't know them. 

They passed the path to their little show cottage, off to the left, and Alex turned involuntarily to look towards it, although the moonless night and the fact that his eyes were half-blinded by lamplight meant he couldn't see anything at all at this distance. They carried on regardless, up over the hill onto the main road through this side of the estate. Even in the uncertain light Alex could see that it wasn't quite as he would have expected it – there was a building where he remembered only a tumbled-down heap of stones, a field that had been empty was now full of sheep snoring in the warm autumn wind. 

The manor was lit from within, a yellow glow seeping out under the front door and between the just-parted curtains. Mr. Acton led them to the front door which was opened by someone like a butler. The four other men followed him in; they looked a little uncomfortable and each of them touched the door frame as they passed, obviously a little superstitious ritual. After a moment, Alex did the same.

Inside, the butler ushered them into a sitting room, well-furnished with a long sofa and a few armchairs, a fire burning in the hearth. The other men took up positions at the back of the room. 

"I know you must have many questions," said Mr. Acton. "But it's late – if you'd prefer, you may sleep here and have the explanation in the morning when you're better rested."

"I think I'd rather have the explanation now," Peter said flatly. One of the men shifted slightly behind them. "Sir," Peter added, sounding almost like he'd meant to say it all along. 

Mr. Acton's mouth quirked up into a faint smile. He made an almost imperceptible gesture and Alex felt the tension dissipate a little. "Very well," he said. "Will you have a seat, at least? And something warm to drink?"

All three of them hesitated – and then Alex stepped forward and took a seat on the sofa. "A drink would be wonderful, thank you," he said deliberately. After a moment Ruth came to sit beside him, murmuring the same, and then Peter last, on his other side. The butler slipped away and then back again to supply them with mugs of something dark and steaming. Alex blew across the top of his and took a sip – it was mulled wine, rich with cinnamon and clove.

Mr. Acton accepted a mug of his own and took a seat in the armchair nearest the fire. He drank, then set the mug aside and leant forward, bracing his elbows on his knees in a gesture that looked not quite lordly enough. "You have traveled," he said. "Not in location."

_In time,_ Alex thought, and Mr. Acton obviously saw the realization on his face. 

"Yes," Mr. Acton said. "In time. I know you'll find it difficult to believe but it is true."

"Bollocks," Peter said, but he sounded less certain than he might have. Ruth didn't say anything at all.

"I assure you that it is true, and I will be happy to provide you with whatever evidence you require – preferably in the morning."

"I believe it," Alex said quietly. Perhaps he ought to be afraid of looking a fool. If they were being filmed, he didn't know how on earth this would come out in the edit. But on the whole, he didn't think they were being filmed. Didn't think this was a prank. Partly because what would be the point? But partly, too, because of the letter in his pocket. _Believe it. It's true._

"Alex…" Peter said.

"Why would anyone fake this?" Alex said, turning sideways to look him in the eye. "I can't imagine why they would."

"For reality telly purposes. Or have you not been in the same business I've been in?"

"Really?" said Alex. "This is the Beeb, not Channel 4."

"I—" Peter cut off the word and pressed his lips together, as if he'd have liked to disagree but either couldn't think of an argument or had decided to hold his peace.

"It's late," Ruth said, effectively cutting them both off. "Let's sleep on it, boys, and if someone's making fools of us then they can do it in the daylight."

Alex didn't say anything, and after a moment Peter said, curtly, "Yes, all right."

\-----

Glebe farm and the rest of the estate in the daylight were no less astonishing than they had been the night before, and no less unnerving. Alex found his attention flitting from one thing to the next to the next as they walked around the edges of the village and past some of the grey stone farm buildings. He was too overwhelmed to settle on any of the details; the morning's decadent manor breakfast sat heavily in his stomach.

It was one thing to say 'I believe it,' late at night after a bit of spookiness, after walking up through the quiet dark to a house with no electric lighting, surrounded by people and things that looked familiar and alien all at once. It was something else entirely to be faced with hard evidence in the morning sunlight, the wind warm on his face and the sounds and smells of the farm all around. It couldn't possibly be true, that they'd traveled in time. It simply couldn't. And yet if what he was experiencing wasn't the truth, what else could it be? Perhaps he'd fallen and hit his head. Perhaps he was dreaming. But if so, it was a damn sight more solid than any dream he'd had before. 

Beside him, Peter was keeping his own counsel – he'd said little over breakfast and his face now was unreadable. This, too, was unnerving. Peter wasn't made for inscrutability and they'd been friends for long enough that Alex could read him perhaps better than anyone. To have that taken away, along with everything he'd ever known about science, had left him feeling even more adrift.

Ruth's delight, at least, was palpable. Alex envied her ability to take things as they came; he'd felt that before, but never as strongly as now. But he could keep her in the corner of his eye like a touchstone as she regarded each new – old – whatever – building as if it were Tutankhamen's tomb. She was grinning fit to burst. 

"Look at the gardens," she said, tugging at Alex's arm and then pointing to where something green and thick-leaved was growing in a little plot of land no bigger than what he could have fit his arms around. "They're making use of all the available space," Ruth said. "I've never seen that in the literature. Land was never at a premium, not here. I wonder why they're doing it."

"Maybe a trial space for unfamiliar plants?" Alex said, but his mind wasn't really focused on the problem. Ruth gave him a look, huffed, and then pulled away to walk ahead with Mr. Acton. Or His Lordship, as they were apparently supposed to call him. Alex had never regretted focusing his studies on farming and industrial history, but he might have liked just a little more knowledge of upper-class forms of address.

At last they finished the circuit and arrived back at the manor house where the party was led into a sunlit parlor with another plush sofa, this time in pale green. A servant poured them tea. Alex took his cup gratefully. 

"How did it happen?" said Ruth. The three of them had sat down all in a row again, Alex in the middle. 

"The stones took you," said Lord Acton. "As I'm sure you've guessed by now. They do that, when they feel it is needed – you're certainly not the first visitors we've had. On the vernal equinox you can return to them again, and they will take you to where you began. _When_ you began."

"And what happens in the meantime?" Alex said.

"It's your choice," his Lordship said. "I can supply you a ticket to London or elsewhere, appropriate clothes, a bit of spending money. If you wish to find your own family, if you have an idea of where they might be, that is certainly an option. Or even if you merely want to see what town has to offer. But the circle will only return you home at the equinox. That is your sole opportunity. If you are not here… you will have missed it." He paused to let them take that in. "Or I can offer you a place here. In the house, in the fields, in the village. There is always more work for willing hands."

Alex rubbed the rim of his teacup with his thumb. London was tempting – the people, the culture, the stories. So many things to see and hear and smell and taste and learn. He'd researched enough family history to know where to find his ancestors. He could meet them, he could make friends. He could discover the forces that had formed his parents and his brother and himself.

But that was an Indiana Jones sort of thought: to choose the personal over the professional, to pluck experiences from the world like jewels from a tomb. The whole point of their year on the farm was to live it, day in, day out. To know it as fully as anyone could know a way of life so different from their own.

"Put me to work," Alex said. "On the farm." He was absurdly grateful to be the first to speak because it meant that his choice was wholly his own.

"And me," Peter said quietly. There was silence for a moment. Alex didn't mean to turn and look at Ruth – he meant to give her the space to decide without the weight of his gaze – but somehow he did it anyway, felt Peter beside him doing the same. 

Ruth said nothing for a long moment; Alex knew she had more to consider than they did, having her two daughters to think of. How that would impact her choice, he didn't know. Maybe it would mean she'd want to stay close, so as not to lose her chance at returning. Maybe it would mean that the lure of her family history was stronger.

"Well," she said at last. "I can't let you boys have all the fun, can I?" Alex grinned at that, and when he looked the other way, at Peter, he found a smile there, too.


	3. October

Today Alex was working with Billy, walking the stone walls and the hedges to make sure they were undamaged. In the thin light of not-yet-sunrise he could see Peter disappearing with James into the stables to check the tack and the wagons in preparation for plowing. Ruth, too, was out in the kitchen garden already, hanging out the rugs on the line to be beaten. She gave him a cheerful wave and he grinned back at her, but the grin turned into a yawn and he had to stifle it quickly and carry on.

The warm weather from the night they'd arrived hadn't lasted and Alex was grateful for his new, borrowed gloves to protect against both the cold and the whipping wind. The blisters he'd developed in his first few weeks had mostly disappeared now, replaced by newly-formed calluses, but he couldn't bear the thought of having to use any more of Ellen's honey and rosewater balm. The scent had filled up their corner of the hayloft for near on ten days running, and though it was pleasant enough, Alex knew Peter must be as heartily sick of it as he was.

Still, sharing space with Peter was, at least, a familiar constant. They'd slept side-by-side on rickety cots in thin tents back during their summer digs at uni, surrounded by the agonizing noises of their fellow students trying (and failing) to have sex quietly. A woolen blanket among the hay, with only Peter's faint snuffling for a soundtrack, was positively palatial in comparison. It was the only place Alex felt truly at ease now.

The farm in its prime was a different place from the farm in 2009. As a working museum there had been people in the village, craft workers and actors and tour guides and visitors, toddlers laughing, older children being wrangled by put-upon schoolteachers. The fields nearest the village had been busy, too, farmed for demonstration. A few vegetable gardens, a field of wheat, a field of potatoes, a field of hay. Several of grass, which allowed for the rotation of animals. But the more distant fields, like the ones associated with their cottage for the show, had remained overgrown and mostly empty, the result of not enough hands to farm them nor enough need. The land was more valuable wild, more valuable as a barrier between the farm and the modern world, and so it had given them a relatively blank slate to start from in their project. A quiet, hidden haven in contrast to the village's whirl of activity.

Now, it was busy, filled up with the work of a family who truly lived there as opposed to just acting. They were the Bennetts on Glebe farm, in the same cottage where Alex and Ruth and Peter would work in the future. This – daily family life – was harder than the work; Alex had done enough garden maintenance and physical work, as a child and then a student, to be confident that he could get along without being too much of a liability. The interpersonal was more difficult, though; it always had been. Peter, after his initial skepticism and suspicion, had slipped back into the characteristic cheerfulness that made him welcome everywhere, while Ruth's sincere enthusiasm had never faltered at all. Alex lacked that instinctive openness, and though he liked the family, they were a group already formed. It was hard to fit himself into the gaps.

Old Bill, the patriarch, was as much of a country man stereotype as anyone could have wanted, a man who knew much and said little. Young Billy (who was older than Alex, but probably doomed to the nickname until his father passed away) was not quite as reticent, but he would answer questions only up to a point and then hit his talking limit for the day and clam up out of what seemed to be a sort of word exhaustion. Billy's wife Ellen had taken to Ruth quickly, but seemed to hold back a little with Peter and Alex, which he supposed wasn't surprising considering that they were two strange men.

It was simpler with the children. James, at seventeen, was almost a man, but he hadn't lost his youthful geniality quite yet. He carried himself easily, with a self-assurance that spoke of good prospects and the leisure of time to grow into himself. He reminded Alex of his own brother, a little, in his quiet confidence. Annabelle was ten, fierce, a bit less ladylike than her mother might have liked but ultimately kind at heart, welcoming. She had a stubborn set to her jaw that often made Alex need to stifle a grin. And Thomas, the youngest at six, was just beginning to attend school; although he was too young to be told the truth about where they'd come from, the presence of three strangers was merely one in a series of new experiences, to be accepted along with all the others.

But it didn't help that Alex was never alone. None of them was trusted to work on their own, not yet; Alex hardly trusted himself, given how little experience they'd had in those few weeks in the future, and so he was grateful for the supervision. But it meant he was up at dawn or before, out with Billy to check on the animals and the fields, keenly aware that the value of the work was higher, here. Then meals around the table in the farmhouse kitchen, struggling to keep his conversation appropriate to the period. He could remember not to mention television and mobile phones, but it was harder to forget about the modern world's ease of travel and easy access to books and the two world wars that, of course, hadn't happened yet.

The only time that he could allow himself to relax was at night in the hayloft. The three of them had taken to sitting up then, far past the time when they ought to be asleep, talking over the day and what they'd learned. Ruth usually had the most interesting things to share simply because she was the most charming, the most likely to inspire conversation and confidences. Alex had already learned from her an astonishing amount about milking practices and pig hygiene, not to mention the process of laundry, which made him want to never touch dirt ever again for fear of making even more work for her and Ellen. Whereas Peter and Alex were learning similar things about building repair and plowing and the maintenance of sheep and, for Alex, a sideline in handling horses. Which he was dreadful at.

Eventually Ruth would retire to her own cubbyhole on the other side of a wall of hay bales and Alex would be left alone with Peter; minutes after that, they'd both be asleep.

And in the morning, they'd get up and do it all again.

\-----

This morning's task, with Billy, was a new one. Alex was full of questions. He tried to bide his time as they walked the first few acres – he was trying to teach himself to prioritize and to watch before asking, but it wasn't in his nature. He wondered if it was in _any_ historian's nature to bypass evidence when it was available.

After a few minutes he realized that today he could get the sense of what they were doing fairly easily. They had to touch each wall, shoving and pulling the stones to make sure they all still fit together. The hedges, too, were shaken firmly, and a hand was run down the length of them to check for anything loose. Alex trailed along behind, trying to mimic what he was being shown – the first time that Billy found something to make him pause, he turned and caught Alex's eye, then gave the stone under his hand a good waggle so that he could hear the rattle-thunk as it moved too-easily between its neighbors.

Alex nodded, running through a series of questions in his head and quashing them one by one. Billy set down his billhook and chisel to begin nudging the stones scattered around the ground with his toe. Alex thought at first that he was looking for a suitable replacement stone, but these were all too small. Billy stooped to pick up a handful; he flipped one at Alex, who scrambled to catch it.

It was nearly flat, a little triangle that looked as if it had been sheered off something larger. Which, Alex realized, it probably had been, back when the wall had been built the first time. Then they'd left it, with a pile of similar scraps, but why? Because there was no point in toting stone around if it wasn't necessary, he supposed. Might as well leave it there. He shrugged.

Billy regarded him with amusement for a moment before examining his handful of stone chips. When he found one he liked, he set the others down in a pile on top of the wall, then lifted the loose rock with one hand and shimmed it up with the little stone. A thump with the back end of the chisel ensured that it stayed firmly in place.

_Ahhhh._ It was ingenious, the combination of two motives for the same action, saving labor by not hauling the stone away, but also ensuring that there _would be_ scraps, for situations just like this. Alex nodded in understanding; Billy nodded back and picked up his billhook, and Alex allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before they went on.

\-----

He, Peter, and Ruth were, at least, not the only ones to ask questions. Old Bill and Billy and Ellen had seen enough visitors of their type to keep their interest subtle, and Thomas was too young to be curious about anything in particular, but James and Annabelle hadn't quite outgrown the need to ask questions, carefully camouflaged as if Alex and Peter and Ruth had come from somewhere like Africa instead of the future. What sorts of animals were there, where they were from? Did they know many blacksmiths? (James was enamored of the blacksmith's daughter, a fact which he _thought_ he was keeping quiet from his parents.) What were the new dances? Did everyone travel to work by this new zeppelin that they'd begun to hear about?

They were the sorts of questions that Alex could imagine himself asking, if their positions had been reversed, and so it was easy to indulge them, especially Annabelle, who could feed chickens and gather eggs and push goats around while still blurting out wonderings at a mile a minute. 

Alex worked out a trade with her, question for question. What was her schooling like? When had she learned to care for the chickens? How did they choose which to hatch and which to gather? What work did she like best? Who were her friends among the children of the estate? What music did she enjoy?

Music came up again one night around the supper table as the family shared their history. Ellen and Billy had known each other in passing since childhood but they'd met almost anew at one of the quarterly dances that Lord Acton put on for the estate. Old Bill had once played the fiddle, although his hands made that impossible now.

There was a real passion in their voices as they spoke, a joy that could never be truly seen in the future looking back, never be contained in an image or a diary or a letter. Alex was fascinated, not only by the stories themselves but by his own reactions to them, the way he couldn't quite get hold of the duality, past tense and present tense all at once. 

He was warm, loose and easy from the beer and the good food, when Annabelle asked them to sing for her.

"People _do_ sing, where you come from?" she asked, half snobbery and half genuine anxiety.

"Oh, yes," Alex said, thinking of Billboard charts and MTV and Glastonbury. "Yes, music's very important."

"Then sing," she said, imperiously.

"That's enough, Annabelle," said Ellen warningly, but Old Bill held up a hand. 

"Go on, then," he said. "If you like." He sounded gruff, but Alex was beginning to be able to distinguish between sincere disapproval and mere country reserve. "Sing us a little something."

"Not you, Alex," Ruth said immediately, and the family turned to look at him almost in sequence, one-two-three-four-five-six, as if his reaction to this peremptory demand was likely to be an entertainment in itself. 

Alex turned his laugh into a cough. "Can't carry a tune in a bucket," he admitted.

"He sang along in church once, it was horrible," said Ruth. "I'm all right, though. And Peter's got a lovely voice."

"Oh—" Peter said.

"You do," said Alex, rather enjoying the flush in Peter's cheeks.

Peter ignored him. "What shall we sing, then?"

"My Bonnie?" Ruth suggested.

"Dull," said Alex. "And not uncommon, here. How about _Viva la Vida_?" Peter barked out a laugh. "Or _Fairytale of New York_ ," said Alex. "Or, ooh. _Relax_."

"You're being rude," Ruth said, flicking her eyes sideways at their hosts, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice nonetheless. She tapped her fingers on the table, considering. "I know," she said after a moment. She took a deep breath, and then lifted her voice in song. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when…"

Peter grinned and joined in. "But I know we'll meet again some sunny day."

A thrill went up Alex's spine at the sound of their voices raised together. After a moment Ruth switched to singing harmony and left Peter to carry the melody himself – and it was even more beautiful then, the contrast of Peter's rich solidity and Ruth's lightness wreathing around him.

When the chorus came around the second time, the family all joined in, obviously used to singing along – Old Bill rough but solid, Billy and James as reedy tenors, Ellen sounding much like Ruth, and Thomas and Annabelle with sweet little piping children's voices, almost like bells. 

They did a few more – _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ , Peter's suggestion, and _We'll Gather Lilacs_.

All three of these were a bit on the nose for their situation, Alex realized. Home, literal or metaphorical. Their chances of getting back, the people they might never see again. Peter didn't seem to notice, although after they'd finished _We'll Gather Lilacs_ , he looked pensive and then said, "Ruth, can you do this one?" He hummed a few notes.

"Oh, yes, good choice," Ruth said, smiling. She took a breath, then launched into the background notes, brighter, bouncy rather than longing. "Bum-bum-bum-bum—"

Peter came in with the melody. "Mister Sandman… bring me a dream. Make her the cutest that I've ever seen. Give her two lips, like roses in clover… and tell me that my lonely nights are over."

The lyrics were a little different than the ones Alex remembered, made mournful like the other songs, and he found that his chest ached. Was Peter mistaken, or was this what he felt now, the song's sweet demand tempered by a faint hopelessness? Did he have someone at home to miss? Alex hadn't thought so, but perhaps he was wrong. He'd been wrong about so many things in the last few months – what was one more?

When this one was done, it was Ruth's turn to change the mood, slipping into _It's a Long Way to Tipperary_ with an energy that allowed for no lingering sadness. Then she asked the Bennetts about their own favorites and they all passed a joyful hour in song. 

At last old Bill called an end to the evening, and Alex was filled up with music even more than supper as he and Ruth and Peter slipped out. They walked across the field to the barn side by side, not speaking, hearing only the memory of melody and the soft hush of their feet on the frosting grass.


	4. November

It was beginning to sink in at last – the fact that they couldn't go home. It wasn't that he minded farm life, or that he missed his own slightly-crap flat with its postage-stamp garden, or that he had a desperate hankering for Kung Pao chicken. It was that there was no escaping it, no calling their advisors at the BBC to ask for tips on wearing Victorian underwear, no opportunity to sneak away and have a tryst with a completely un-period hot shower. This was his _life_ now. This was all there was. How had it even happened?

He brought it up with Peter one night in the barn. Ruth had proclaimed herself exhausted and gone off into her own hay cubby to sleep, but Alex couldn't quite turn his brain off, and the best person to bother with these thoughts was always Peter.

"How d'you think it worked?" he said to Peter. "That we came here. Really worked, I mean. They all say that it was the stones, but _how_? What's the mechanism?"

He could hear the sound of rustling hay as Peter shrugged. "I'm still not convinced this isn't a product of last night's cheese," he said. 

"We didn't have cheese that last night," Alex said.

"Yes, well, that is something of a sticking point, I grant you."

Alex snorted. They were both silent for a moment, and then Peter said, "Why is it that there isn't any cheese-based mythology? You'd think it would be a natural countryside topic." 

"Of course there are myths about cheese," said Alex.

"Name _one_."

Alex hummed, searching for inspiration. "The legend of the pool at Child's Ercall," he said at last. "A mermaid offered two men a treasure hidden at the bottom of the pond if they would come into the water. When they did, she lifted up a lump of cheese as big as a man's head. One of them swore because he was so disappointed, and the mermaid screamed and dove down, and neither she nor the cheese was ever seen again."

"That wasn't actually about cheese, you know," said Peter, laughing.

"No?"

" _No_."

"How about the fort of Earl's Hill?" said Alex. "Two Saxon kings fought over it, and during the battle, one of them shot at the other with an arrow made of parmesan. But the arrow missed and was lost into the trees, never to be found. Legend says that anyone who finds the cheese arrow and eats it will have good luck forever."

Peter wheezed with laughter.

"The Nag's Head pub," Alex proclaimed; he was on a roll now. "Said to have a cupboard inside which is a wheel of cheese carved into the devil's face, and anyone who looks at it will go mad."

"You are an idiot," Peter choked out, but before Alex could think of a response, Ruth's voice came from behind the wall of hay bales.

"Go to _sleep_ , boys."

Alex winced. "Yes, Ruth," he called back. Peter's laughter was muffled now, as if he had his hand over his mouth. Still, Alex couldn't quite help pushing his luck, just a little, so he leaned in and whispered, "And then there were the two giants, brothers, who shared an oak chest full of brie—"

Peter grabbed up a handful of hay and threw it at him; some of it went into his mouth, which was enough to shut him up for real, and then they were both silent. 

Peter's breathing evened out into the soft whuffle of sleep, but Alex lay awake in the dark for a long time, still thinking. 

It was possible that Peter was right. Maybe this really was all an elaborate hallucination, a dream brought on by tainted meat or fever or just exposure to too much history before bedtime.

But it felt real. He could touch things, he could taste, he could _smell_ , which had never happened in his dreams before, as far as he could remember. He could carry on long, meandering conversations with the others on the farm or even strangers in the village – conversations that didn't have a purpose, that weren't there just to serve as a fulcrum for Alex's own narrative. He didn't even seem to have a narrative at all.

All the evidence of his senses told him to believe what was happening. And if he couldn't trust that, then what _could_ he trust?

\-----

Sheep, it transpired, were much the same in any time period. Alex had taken to visiting them whenever he began to feel overwhelmed, pressing his hands into their coats and taking deep breaths of the air which smelled, invariably, of sheep manure. He supposed he ought to be worried that the smell of manure was comforting, but right now he would take what he could get. And it was a useful feeling, given how much more time he was going to have to spend with sheep when they got home.

If they got home.

The mystery of it was beginning to wear on him. He'd believed in science all his life – the science of planting in the garden and raising chickens as a child, the science of archaeology at university. Certainly there were things that he didn't understand, that _no one_ understood, but they were things that could be explained at some moment in the future, when humanity's knowledge was greater. Alex still believed that, even now. He had to believe it, or else he would go mad. But with the method of their travel so mysterious, it was hard to trust that it would work again when the time came.

The days were getting shorter now, the sky grey-shadowed, the plowing done and the work a little less, and so there was no one to see when Alex walked down to the stone circle most nights before supper. He wasn't trying to understand the stones, given that he hadn't the faintest idea where to begin, but it was reassuring to walk around the circle and touch them as proof that they were still there. Often he would lay his hand onto _their_ stone, the one they'd been stood around when they arrived, and try to sense something – anything – by virtue of the touch. The only thing he ever felt was cold, pitted stone against his palm.

It was late in the month when he misstepped in the dark going back up to the house. There was enough of a moon to see by, just, but it was periodically hidden by scudding clouds, leaving him with moments where he could walk only by instinct. It was in one of those that he encountered a rock underfoot, a little too loose to handle his weight without tipping sideways. Alex wobbled and took his hands out of his pockets, trying to keep his balance; he took a sideways step, intending to brace himself, but it turned into stumbling blindly off the path. Some part of his mind had enough control to keep him following the slope of the ground downwards rather than fight upwards and fall on his face onto god knew what. But it was impossible to see where he was going and after three more steps he tripped again, flopping sideways straight into the stream.

The water was sharp and cold against his face. Alex gasped, got a mouthful of water, then managed to turn onto his back and cough out the worst of it. The stream wasn't very deep here, so he dropped one hand down to brace against the silt, gathered his strength, and heaved himself towards the bank, rolling up and out onto the muddy grass. He had to pause for a moment, still coughing, but he was soaked through and already shivering, hands scattered with pinpricks of pain. He forced himself up onto hands and knees, wincing at the chill of the mud against his palms, and then scrambled up the slope until he found the path again. This time he kept himself more or less upright as far as the barn and hauled open the door.

There were blankets up in the hayloft. Alex threw off his sodden coat and went up the ladder to grab one, stripping off the rest of his clothes before wrapping it around himself, rubbing the fabric over his arms to generate a bit more warmth. 

Only after he'd done it did he remember the letter. He carried it in the inside pocket of his coat, which was nearly always with him: his protection in the work hours and his pillow at night, hung safely on a hook inside the cottage door when they were sat down to supper. He hadn't reread it, the decision made out of some superstitious impulse that he couldn't quite explain. As if it might have changed, as if reading it again would cause the already-stretched temporal elastic to snap, sending him off into an obscure corner of history. Somewhere – somewhen – that hadn't featured in his classes at university. Somewhere even stranger than this. But he didn't have to reread it to know that it was there. He could reach his hand into his coat and run his thumb along the line of the envelope, could bend down to pour feed into a trough and feel the paper crackle against his chest. It had been something tangible, something real. An anchor.

Alex dug through the hay for fresh trousers and then hurried back down the ladder. The moon had come out again, pale through the gap in the opened barn door. His coat lay where he'd left it; he could tell even before his fingers touched it that the fabric was thoroughly soaked. His heart sank. He tugged the coat open with still-tingling hands and tried to gently ease the envelope out of the pocket. With patience it came free almost undamaged, but when he held it out into the wan moonlight, his name on the front had dissolved into nothing more than a dark swipe of ink. He pulled out the letter itself and unfolded it – the page showed only one central, irregular smudge.

Alex regarded it with despair. Why hadn't he taken more care? Why hadn't he put it somewhere safer? Why hadn't he _memorized_ it, for goodness sake? Now all he had was the memory. Clearest was the detail of his licking the painting, which was honestly the least important thing in there. Then something about the hay rick, and last… something about knowing, but not about what he would know. Something cryptic. It was this one that bothered him the most. He knew it was crucial, even if he didn't understand why. 

But then again, he hadn't written the letter yet, not in this time. So whatever it was, his past self hadn't known it just as he, now, didn't know it. Because they were the same, weren't they? His past self and his future self. 

It was almost impossible to wrap his head around the whole concept. Instead he held the remains of the letter up to his face for a long time, squinting, trying to make it out a few words or even let the shapes inspire some recollection. But the memory kept sliding off the surface of his mind like the ink had slid off the paper, and eventually he gave up, crumpling the letter and envelope into a damp ball and chucking it away into the dark.

\-----

At supper, Alex took the ribbing about his unexpected bath with as much grace as he could muster, but when everyone finally got tired of ragging him – and in Ellen's case, making reproachful noises about having to clean his mud-sodden coat – he breathed a faint sigh of relief. 

Peter's teasing had been a bit perfunctory and when the conversation turned, he joined it in earnest without giving Alex a second look. Ruth, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow at him across the table. Alex shook his head but offered a smile of thanks for the reassurance before devoting himself to the conversation as well.

That night none of them stayed up; Peter was frowning as they left the house and crossed the field, his shoulders tight. Alex sensed that something was wrong, but he couldn't tell what it was, and the set of Peter's jaw made it seem unwise to ask. Ruth walked ahead of them carrying the lantern and was no help whatsoever. 

When they had climbed up into the hayloft, Peter settled himself to sleep immediately. Alex was too tired to do anything else either, shivering from the walk in the cold air even though he'd been thoroughly warmed by the fire and the warm supper. He tugged off his newly-borrowed coat and folded it into a pillow, then wrapped himself in the clean blanket he'd been given and closed his eyes.

\-----

Over the next few days, Peter took to following Alex out into the fields. When pressed, he said it was because he didn't want Alex's attempts at water ballet to frighten the livestock, but Alex knew him well enough to understand that there was genuine worry there, if an awkward sort. It wasn't as if he was likely to fall into the stream again, especially in broad daylight, but he could understand the impulse. 

Normally he wouldn't have minded having company – especially Peter's – but now he felt unsettled, as if there was something he was missing. What had been in that letter? What had been so important that he'd gone to such effort to tell himself about it, only to fail so miserably? His past self, his future self, had to have known that he'd fall into the stream, had to have known that he'd ruin the letter without remembering most of it. So what was the point of it all?

What was the point of their even being here? He thought that might be the nub of all his unease. Why _were_ they here? To learn something important about themselves – that was what the legend said. If he accepted the rest of their situation as true, he had to accept that as well. But he had no idea what he might be looking for.

Perhaps it was only the knowledge of the farm, of the family, of the period. Perhaps he was supposed to prove to himself that he could survive here, that he could live just as easily without mobile phones and _The Book of the Farm_ and the BBC to guide him. Ruth and Peter seemed to have no troubles with that; Ruth had jumped in head-first with her usual enthusiasm and seemed to find even scrubbing floors entertaining, while Peter had just fitted himself into the farm with his usual geniality and good nature. 

Alex had tried to do it, too, tried to take the opportunity he'd been given and squirrel away knowledge and be satisfied with that. But maybe he hadn't really _learned it_ yet, because he still couldn't stop feeling that there was something else.

\-----

The weather got colder, then warmer, then damp. One morning fog came, settling over the fields like a fleece just shorn, clumped together in places and stretched thin in others so that it only barely hid the sky above. Alex let Peter follow him out to the sheep without complaint this time, thinking that he could use all the help he could get in trying to find white fluffy animals in the mist.

They divided up the field and examined sheep in silence for a while, each keeping a count and making note of anything that seemed to need attention. There wasn't anything, really – a good sign but for the way it left Alex still feeling purposeless and strange, with nothing practical to focus on.

When he'd finished his portion of the field, he looked around to check Peter's progress and found that they were only a few yards apart. Peter was turned half away to peer out over the flock, probably counting to make sure he hadn't missed one.

Droplets had gathered in his hair and on the shoulders of his dark blue woolen coat. They caught the light in uneven flickering as he moved, and suddenly it was as if he were nothing but an old black and white bit of film, as if he were truly in the past and Alex still in the future, as if the twenty feet that separated them were actually days and weeks and months and years. As if, like so much history, this was something Alex could see but not touch.

And he wanted desperately to touch.

_Oh,_ Alex thought, and then, _Well, that's unexpected._


	5. December

He kept it close to himself, this small secret. Turning it over in his mind like it was a coin he'd dug up somewhere, trying to figure out how old it was and what it meant and what it was worth.

Age – he could give a rough estimate for that now that he was looking back for it. There had been a spark he felt with Peter, early on. But they'd both been seeing other people and Alex'd had sparks with lots of people. The one with Peter hadn't been anything to speak of. By the time they were both single again they'd settled into being friends and then best friends, and Alex had almost forgotten that first spark entirely.

He loved Peter – he knew that already. He just hadn't known that it could be this kind of love, the kind that came with desire and wanting, the kind that grew its roots down deep into his body.

As for what it was worth… probably not a bloody thing. Peter had never given any indication that he felt that spark, too, or that he was interested in Alex in anything more than a friendly way. Given where they lived, now certainly wasn't the time or place to think about changing that. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't said anything about it in the letter. It would have been easy to do so, even if he were trying to be discreet – 'by the way, Peter wants the same thing you want' – and as little as Alex remembered of the thing, he certainly would have remembered _that_. So the fact that he hadn't said anything at all… that meant something.

No, he'd have to keep quiet. He was resolved in that.

\-----

It wasn't, in the end, as difficult as he'd thought it would be. There was an odd sort of pleasure in having a secret. Working side by side, allowing himself only snatched moments to appreciate how broad Peter's shoulders were, the strength of his hands, the way perspiration beaded under the hinge of his jaw. Gathering round the table of an evening, a hearty supper in his stomach, Alex exerting himself to make Peter laugh, to hear the sound of his rich voice raised in song and see his face in the firelight.

With the days growing short, they were all together more, sitting around the fire so as to make the best use of the light and warmth. In preparation for Christmas, everyone was making decorations and gifts for the children. Ellen was sewing new stockings and Old Bill putting together a makeshift guitar. Billy and James had bargained some roof repair work in exchange for candies from the village shop, so they didn't do much around the fire but moan about their aching backs, but that seemed to be a tradition.

Alex had clubbed together with Ruth and Peter to make a chess set; Peter carved the black pieces, showing considerable skill, while Ruth made paints for the board and helped Alex with making the white pieces. His work was certainly less elegant than Peter's, but hopefully the painted faces would be amusing, if nothing else. 

He supposed it didn't matter. This wasn't too far removed from his family Christmases as a child; his parents were keen believers in nature and simplicity, and the holidays had always been about things made by hand rather than things bought. At times Alex had resented that, and he and Tom had certainly behaved badly when faced with the exciting plastic flashing electronic toys that their friends had received. Yet now he could remember those presents with fondness, remember the joy on his mother's face as she opened each poorly-made picture frame with shells glued on, each wobbly and smudged clay pot, barely flat enough on the bottom to be useful in holding earrings or a set of keys.

She would love it here. His father, too – all the land, all the ways to get his hands in the dirt, all the things to be mended and cared for. Alex wished he could have brought them, and Tom, just to give them the gift of seeing it.

Maybe he could think of some way to take a bit of it back. Not to tell them what happened, because they wouldn't believe it. He'd hardly believe it himself, if their positions were reversed. So, not the truth, but something to give them just a hint of what he's had. Something.

\-----

Christmas itself was less than he was used to but more than he'd expected. Lord Acton provided them – and each household on the estate, apparently – with beef, sugar, and dried fruits for their holiday supper, and a handful of Christmas crackers. 

"His Lordship is very generous," Ellen said proudly, when it was all delivered a few days before Christmas. "More than any I've heard of."

"I can see that," Ruth said. Alex stood at her side, watching as everything was carried in, and he gave her a sideways look at the tone of her voice. But what she said next was merely conversation, as light as ever. "What are we making, then?"

"A roast, with the beef," said Ellen. "Fidget pie and potatoes and some of that chutney we made in the fall. I've saved up a bit of cheese as well. Christmas pudding, of course."

"Christmas pudding," Alex said, his mouth watering already. Both of them gave him indulgent looks. 

"Yes, yes," said Ruth. "I'm sure there will be enough for you to stuff yourself with."

"I'm a growing boy!" Alex protested. 

"You're a greedy nuisance is what you are," said Ruth. "Go and earn your keep, will you?"

Alex laughed, but he let himself be shooed out into the late morning air.

\-----

Ruth's holiday cheer seemed so ever-present that it was a surprise when they stumbled on her one afternoon just beyond lunch, standing at the fence that looked out over the yard. There was a butter churn at her feet and two pails of fresh milk. Alex couldn't see her face, but there was something in the stillness of her body that caught his attention. He motioned Peter to join him as he went over.

"Ruth—"

"It's Eve's birthday," she said abruptly. "She was really looking forward to learning how to make cheese."

Alex looked at Peter helplessly, but Peter ignored him in favor of Ruth. "She still is looking forward to it," he said gently. "She'll be waiting when you get back, and then you can make it together." The kindness in his voice nearly took Alex's breath away.

"D'you think we're changing things?" Ruth asked. "What if we go back and everything's different?" She swallowed. "What if _they're_ different, Catherine and Eve? I wouldn't want even a hair on their heads changed, you know."

"It won't happen," Alex said. "We came here to learn something, didn't we? That's what the ritual said. If everything changed when we got home, then what would be the point?"

Ruth carried on looking out for a moment, then sucked in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "I suppose you're right," she said. "There's nothing to be done now but have faith."

Alex watched as she visibly folded up her worries, tidied them away into some cupboard in the back of her mind. "Come along, boys," she said. "Alex, the churn. Peter, the pails. Once you've delivered them, you can run off and lasso things, or whatever it is that boys do that makes them so self-satisfied."

"Yes, Ruth," said Peter, obviously trying to hide his amusement.

"Yes, Ruth," Alex echoed, not trying to hide his in the slightest.

\-----

It stayed with him, though, in the days leading up to Christmas. It was so easy to think of Ruth as confident, enthusiastic, happy with any sort of new experience. Harder to imagine her having doubts or little melancholy moments. Alex was rather ashamed of himself for not thinking of it, for imagining that he was the only one to feel out of place, to miss home.

He asked Peter about it one afternoon as they walked the far fields, checking the ground for signs of rot or mold. "Ruth's still missing Eve and Catherine," he said. "I can tell."

"Yeah," said Peter. "I don't know what to do about it. If there is anything."

"No, I don't either." Alex paused. "What about you? Missing someone?" There had been that moment, during the singing, months ago now, when he had questioned whether Peter had someone to miss. He'd never asked, because it seemed impossible to inquire about something like that, but now that the holiday was almost upon them he wanted to know if he should be worried about Peter as much as Ruth. The desire was selfish, a little, but that was excusable, wasn't it, when mostly it was that he was concerned as a friend? 

Perhaps not – but the answer was a gift he couldn't help wanting for himself.

They walked five or so steps across bare soil before Peter spoke. "No," he said at last. Was it Alex's imagination, or had his shoulders gone a little tighter? "Not with Dad gone. Mum and I haven't spoken in a long time and I think that's quite all right with the both of us. What I've got is enough for me." He paused, then glanced sideways and said, "What about you? I thought maybe you were seeing someone."

Alex had no idea why. "No," he said. "I'm not. Wasn't. Haven't been." He shook his head, trying to get rid of the grammatical confusion inherent in their situation. "I wish Tom and my parents could be here, though. They'd love it."

"I'd have liked to see Tom's face when they gave us these drawers, though," Peter said, plucking at his trousers to indicate the ill-fitting cotton contraption underneath.

Alex laughed. "That would've been a wonderful Christmas present," he agreed. "Best ever."

\-----

Christmas lunch was as fine a feast as Alex had ever seen. The roast was done to perfection, its juices made into a thick gravy that he spooned over his potatoes and sprouts. The chutney provided a tang to cut through the heaviness of it, and it was delicious with toasted cheese and a bite of fidget pie. 

Harold the blacksmith and his daughter Hope joined them; Harold's wife had died a few years past and the two families had taken to sharing their Christmases since then. He'd brought plum wine which was shared out around the table, with even a watered-down drop for Thomas and Annabelle. Ruth asked about the recipe and Harold said that he'd bargained it off of John Brewer down on the west end of the estate. This turned into a long discussion of who made what in the area and how best to trade with each one. Alex listened, but mostly just stuffed his face and watched the way Peter's eyelashes dipped as he tasted something particularly good.

After supper, gifts were given and crackers were pulled. Most of the riddles made no sense to Alex, but he went at it gamely anyway. When those were exhausted, they sat around the fire and played games. There was a version of Blind Man's Buff that Alex hadn't seen before. Annabelle took the role of blind man first, a kerchief tied around her head before she was whirled around in the middle of the floor. 

"Come shepherd, come shepherd, and catch your sheep," called James.

"I canna come now, for I'm fast asleep," Annabelle replied.

"If you don't come now they'll all be gone."

"What's in my way?"

"A bottle of hay!" Thomas said gleefully.

"Hmm," Annabelle said, and gave a little jump in place. "Am I over it?" Without waiting for an answer, she scrambled forwards, groping for anyone in reach. Thomas fell into laughter and dodged out of her way, stumbling into Hope who stumbled into James; they broke away from each other, flushed from more than the heat of the fire, and all the adults had to hold back smiles.

When they all tired of that, they played Hunt the Slipper, and then merely sat around the table and sang carols, with Harold playing the pipe as accompaniment.

Eventually there was a knock on the door, which was opened to admit Lord Acton. Alex was surprised, but he realized after a moment that this was ceremonial, with his Lordship visiting each farm in turn over the course of the day. He was offered a special decorated mince pie – small, which only made sense if he had many visits to make – and a glass of plum wine, both of which were accepted graciously. His Lordship made a point to briefly speak with Old Bill, as well as each of the three of them in turn, making sure that they were well and not unhappy. Then he was gone, back out into the dark, cold night, and inside the house, the games carried on.

\-----

Peter, Ruth, and Alex exchanged their own presents that night in the barn after one last check on the animals. Alex and Peter had traded gifts before, but mostly of the competitive type: smelliest cheese, most ridiculously-named beer, rock that looked most likely to turn into the devil at midnight on a Sunday. This year, Alex had felt compelled to do something more sincere, and the others obviously felt the same because they'd been working hard for weeks now.

There was nothing to wrap them with, so they took it in turns to dig things out of the hay and bring them down the ladder. Ruth went first with her two knitted mufflers, thick and warm and needed for the cold winter nights. They both had the same pattern: the long middle section all in green and the ends decorated with pitted grey circles that could only be the standing stones. Alex could barely guess at how much time she must have put into them. When she'd even _found_ the time, he had no idea.

"Cheers," he said, voice rough. "Ruth, it's—"

"Wonderful," Peter finished for him. "Absolutely wonderful."

Even in the dim light, Alex could see the way her cheeks pinked. "Yes, well. You're both too bloody-minded to stay properly warm without help. Come along, then. Let's see yours, Peter."

Peter wrapped the muffler around himself before he went up to the hayloft. He came down one-handed, his other hand wrapped around his gifts.

They were wooden carvings like the chess pieces, but these were smaller and more delicate and hung on a string. Ruth's was a wheel of cheese with a wedge cut out and Alex's was a sheep. Somehow Peter had managed to make the sheep look stubborn. Or perhaps just supremely lifelike; that was how sheep always looked. Alex rubbed his fingertips over the sheep's tiny but distinct curls, marveling at it.

"Amazing," he said. "I never asked— where— when did you learn to do this?" 

"I learned a bit when I was a kid," Peter said. "Dad taught me. I haven't done any in years, though, so it took quite a bit of work. You should see the pile of dreadful early attempts."

"Ooh, yes please," said Ruth, which made them both laugh.

"Too late – I've anticipated that and they're already gone for kindling."

"Bah," Ruth said. "Spoil my fun."

"Alex, your turn," Peter said pointedly.

"I'm fairly sure that I'll be a disappointment after you two, but all right." That wasn't even self-deprecation, but merely the truth. He'd traded information and material with Annabelle; she had good advice on sewing even though she hated the precision of actually doing it, preferring the enthusiastic stabbing of fleece into felt if she had to make anything fabric at all. In turn, Alex had cudgeled his brain for scientific future knowledge of chicken breeding. The deal had satisfied them both. 

Then he'd hidden himself away in the tack room on a few cold afternoons to turn scraps of leather into gloves. They were lined with Annabelle's felt and pieced together with careful stitches, and though he'd had to estimate the sizes, he thought he'd managed to get them more-or-less right.

They must have been close enough, because Peter didn't say anything as he pulled one on. Ruth let out a low whistle and said something complimentary; Alex smiled at her, but his eyes were on Peter, helplessly watching for some sign that his present wasn't entirely a disaster. Peter stroked the thumb of his bare hand over the leather. "It's marvelous," he said, still looking down. "No matter how many times I think I know what you can do, you always surprise me."

Alex's heart gave a tremendous thump at that. He half-hoped for more, but Peter shook himself suddenly, and when he looked up, his face showed merely his usual cheeriness. "Thanks, Alex," he said. "They'll be nice and warm."

\-----

They retired to the hayloft soon after, but despite his exhaustion, Alex couldn't sleep – he didn't know if it was leftover holiday excitement, or the tickle of hay that he couldn't quite get out of his nose, or that tone in Peter's voice when his thumb stroked over the leather of the glove. He suspected that he might remember that for a long time.

He could tell that Peter wasn't sleeping, either; his breathing didn't make the right noise. Eventually Alex said softly, "You all right?"

"Yeah," Peter said, his voice just as quiet. "Just can't sleep yet. Which I know I'll regret in the morning. It's only—" A beat. "It's odd, that's all."

"Mmm?" Alex didn't want to break the mood.

"Today. The family. Everyone here, really. They're not what I expected. _Christmas_ wasn't what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Something a little more perfect. Storybook. But they're just people, really."

"Yeah." Alex had thought about that, too. The family was a good one, friendly, generous. But they had their fights just like anyone else, frustrations over petty things like Thomas' frequent laziness when winding the mangle in the laundry.

"And Christmas was just Christmas. Nice, but— there was no miracle. No moment of revelation about the meaning of the holiday, no instant falling in love with… whoever."

Alex's stomach twisted. "So you're still as much of a Scrooge as ever, is that what you're saying?" he said, deflecting.

Peter laughed. "Which one does that make you? Bob Cratchit? Tiny Tim?"

"Ghost of Christmas Future," Alex joked, but it came out flat, and in the silence that came after, he cursed himself. He supposed they couldn't laugh about that, not now. Maybe not ever.

"Yeah," Peter said quietly. "I guess so."

"Peter—" Alex didn't know what to say. He could hear the rustle of hay as Peter shook his head tiredly.

"Forget it."

They both were silent for a long time. Just as Alex was beginning to fall asleep, Peter said, "Thanks."

"Mmm?"

"For being something that I can count on. Your terrible jokes, anyway."

Alex wanted to reach out to him in the dark, to rest a hand on his shoulder. He didn't dare. "Of course," he said instead. "Of course."


	6. January

When Christmas had passed, the weather turned to snow and then icy sleet. Alex and Billy trudged through the near fields – Alex with more careful steps than usual, given Ruth's laughing reminder of his visit to the stream two months ago. There wasn't much left to do with the land, not now, but the livestock was, as a unit, thoroughly unhappy with the weather. They required a bit of babying now, a bit more food than usual, and since the hayloft was running low – most of what remained was needed for the three of them to sleep in – Old Bill decided that it was time to break into their secondary supply. 

Alex watched with interest as Billy and James set up the ladder next to the hay rick. After a bit of a conference they had Peter go up first, the idea being that he'd cut the thing open and then James would hand him up the pitchfork so they could see how well things had survived. Peter climbed up gingerly, reaching the top of the ladder and then swinging one leg over to balance himself on the peak. 

There was a creak.

_Watch out for the hay rick,_ Alex thought, almost idly, and then he was diving forwards, stumbling over his own feet, but he managed to catch Peter against his shoulder as the whole rick shuddered and gave way.

Peter's weight slammed into him and they tumbled to the muddy earth, Peter's head landing somewhere in the vicinity of Alex's chest and his elbow in Alex's gut. Alex's head bashed into the ground and he felt all the breath go out of him at once. Then the pain hit, throbbing in his head and high and sharp in the place behind his ribs. Peter rolled off him a second later but Alex couldn't move, couldn't do anything but lie there with mud soaking into his hair and tears of pain streaming from his eyes.

"Alex," Peter said, and then, "Alex! Are you— for god's sake, are you all right?" He put a hand to Alex's shoulder, gently, but even that small touch was enough to make Alex shiver and then cry out as the movement passed through him. Distantly he could hear Thomas running, calling for help, and then Billy was there, pushing Peter firmly aside.

"Breathe slowly, Alex," he said. Alex didn't want to, couldn't think of anything but the pain, but Billy said it again. "Breathe carefully now. In." The sound of his calm voice was enough to break through the panic. Alex breathed in slowly, closing his eyes against everything else. "Good," Billy said. "Now out. Slow again." Alex let the breathe trickle from his mouth. A few more of those and he could begin to think again, although his chest still hurt something fierce. 

Pounding feet told him someone else had arrived. Billy shuffled away but another body filled the space and Ellen's voice took over. "Just be still," she said. "You'll be all right."

Alex had no idea how long he lay there, only breathing. Sounds happened around him but he couldn't spare the attention to wonder what they were. Then feet, moving more slowly through the mud. Alex opened his eyes; the first thing he saw was Peter, breathing hard, his face pale and drawn tight, his clothes half-covered in mud; Thomas was standing in front of him, arms held up as if he was valiantly ready to hold Peter back if necessary even though he wasn't even half as tall. But Peter wasn't moving.

A fractional turn of Alex's head revealed James and Billy at his side with some sort of flat thing – his fuzzed mind recognized it after a moment as an impromptu stretcher. They lifted him up only far enough to let Ruth slide the stretcher underneath; still, it was enough movement that the edges of his vision darkened for a moment and he heard himself make a guttural noise. 

They lifted the stretcher slowly, in unison, and then carried him back to the house, each step a careful slide so as not to jostle him unnecessarily. He appreciated it, in a distant sort of way, but he caught a glimpse of Peter's white face as they went past and then the shadows went over his eyes entirely and he faded into darkness.

\----

It wasn't sleep, not precisely. Sleep meant oblivion, meant no pain, but he could feel it even here, a jagged metal bar that went through him at an angle, right to left. When he woke, it was with a gasp that made it suddenly sharper, as if the bar had been shoved from one side. Ruth was there almost immediately, her hand on his shoulder pushing him gently down again.

"Easy," she said.

"Peter," Alex said, trying not to fight her but not quite under his own conscious control. "Peter, is he—"

"He's all right," Ruth said. "He's perfectly fine."

Alex sucked in a breath, winced, and made himself let it out slowly.

"That's it," Ruth said. "Easy now."

"Sorry."

Ruth sighed. "If you're going to apologize to anyone, it ought to be your own ribs."

"They never listen to me," Alex said feebly.

"I don't wonder, given how you treat them. What on earth possessed you to fling yourself forward like that?"

"Peter was going to fall."

Ruth regarded him with an inscrutable expression. "Mmm."

"What?" Alex asked, but he felt the word slide out of his mouth halfway through. Darkness gathered at the edges of his vision like smoke from a blocked chimney, billowing up, and he slipped back into nothingness once again.

\-----

He surfaced from the darkness once, twice, and then in a succession of brief moments that was more than he could keep track of. Ruth was there in the chair beside him, and then Annabelle, and then Peter – head leant against the edge of the mattress, fast asleep, only his flattened curls visible – and then Annabelle again for the next and next and next. He suspected that she'd been appointed as his nurse, and was proved right when he came aware in time to hear Ellen giving her instructions. Upon seeing him awake, they both focused in on him; Annabelle helped him ease his head up a little and Ellen fed him a few drops of something medicinal, the liquid spiced but bitter underneath. 

Alex made a croaking noise, and Ellen seemed to recognize it as the question he'd intended. "Laudanum," she said. "A small dose, safe enough." Alex nodded a little and regretted it almost immediately. "Back to sleep," she said, and then, "Annabelle, the mending."

Annabelle set Alex's head back down gently onto the pillow and then settled into the chair and picked up the pile of cloth beside her. She looked a little mutinous, but didn't argue. Ellen gave her an approving squeeze of the shoulder and went out, closing the door behind her. Annabelle set the cloth down in her lap immediately. "It's been two days," she said. "Ma said you've broken a few ribs but those'll heal just fine. But you've got a bit of a fever so she wants to keep you here just in case you decide to turn your own toes up."

It took Alex a long moment to understand the metaphor; he was more preoccupied with looking sideways, trying to gauge where 'here' was. It didn't look familiar, but after a moment Annabelle caught the motion of his eyes and said, "It's the larder, if that's what you want to know. So you'll have to put up with people coming in and out. But Ma said she expects you'll sleep for a while anyway, so I don't s'pose it will bother you much."

He felt himself easing back into sleep already, so Ellen was most likely right. He closed his eyes. "Oh," Annabelle said, disappointed. "You couldn't stay awake a bit longer? Only if you sleep, I'll have to—"

Alex missed the actual words at the end of that sentence, but as he slipped down into the dark, he rather thought he could guess what they were.

\-----

Alex woke again. He could see nothing, which caused a brief moment of panic before he realized that it must be night; his blindness meant only that the larder was unlit. It took a long time for his pulse to slow, especially given that his chest ached with each heartbeat, but once he had reached something like calm, he listened for breathing and determined that he was alone.

It was a relief. He'd been in and out of consciousness, but always watched, never given a chance to come to terms with his situation. He didn't regret what he'd done – how could he? – but he hated the idea of being stuck here, with time passing outside. The temptation was to get back to work as soon as he could, but Alex knew that would do more harm than good, in the long term. He'd end up back here, like as not, having hurt himself even more. The only thing he could do was rest, take his laudanum obediently, and try to keep Annabelle from driving herself mad with mending.

But he wanted to see Peter. Other than that flash of Peter's bowed head as he slept against the edge of the mattress, Alex hadn't seen him at all since the hay rick. Perhaps that was because there was too much work to be done, or because Peter thought he'd be terrible at looking after him, or because Ellen had told him to keep away lest he keep Alex awake with conversation.

Alex wanted to see him anyway, to assure himself that Peter had come away from it all with nothing more than a muddy coat. If Peter was all right, then everything else – the pain, the shivering fever that he could feel swelling his throat – it would all be worth it. 

The feeling took him back to a dig in the summer after his second year at uni, one day when it had begun unexpectedly to rain. He'd been flat on his stomach, sheltering the earth beneath him with the spread of his arm. Around him and above him the other students had scrambled to put up the tent, but Alex's job had been to protect the half-uncovered mosaic and he'd clung to that even as hot rain soaked his back and slivers of grass and dirt gathered in his eyes from the churning of feet around him. He'd clung to it even as someone tripped over his leg and he had to bite back a gasp of pain, even as thunder rolled ominously across the moor.

He'd kept the thing safe, in the end, and earned a nice commendation from the professor which went on his CV immediately. But what he remembered most was the feeling of intense purpose, the thrill not just from success but from the attempt itself. From knowing he was capable of that level of focus and dedication.

It wasn't a surprise to discover that he could dedicate himself to Peter as much as to the work. No, that wasn't a surprise at all.

\-----

He slept again, woke again, slept again. The next time he woke, Lord Acton sat beside him, his hat hung on the corner of the chair and a slim book in his hands. It was a strange enough sight – the lord of the manor in a farmhouse larder – that Alex thought he must be dreaming, but after a moment his Lordship looked up. "Ah, awake at last," he said. "How do you feel?"

"Er," said Alex. "All right." He was still shivering a little, but the ache in his chest had eased enough that he could breathe and speak without pain, as long as he didn't move. "And yourself, sir?" It was a reflexive question, though it sat oddly in his mouth.

"Very well, thank you," said Lord Acton, giving him a gracious nod of the head. "The weather has cleared and it was a pleasant walk down." 

He segued into a mild discussion what was happening in the village and the visitors to the manor who were expected in a few days. Alex boggled for a moment, but then he understood – it wasn't necessary for him to participate beyond the occasional question or a hum to indicate that he was listening, which allowed him to stay awake and following along for longer than he'd expected. And it was wonderful to have a window into the things that were going on in the world without him, the things that he might have missed even without being confined here, barely able to lift his head. Fishing, which he'd never much cared for, but as a vehicle for conversation about local matters among landowners it became rather fascinating; the cider industry; plans for the quarterly dance festivals.

At last, Lord Acton rose from the chair and said with a tinge of regret that he must get back. 

"Of course," said Alex. "Thank you for coming." He was keenly aware of just how much of an honor it was to be visited like this.

"It was my pleasure," Lord Acton said. He walked to the door. "I'm glad to find you recovering. You've stepped away from your life, coming here, and I'd like to send you back as safely as you've come. And having found something in this visit, of course. That's the purpose of the stones, after all."

"Which way did you go?" Alex asked quietly. Because a suspicion had been growing in his mind almost from the beginning. It had solidified now. Those were the words of a man who had stepped away from his life, too. Or been taken. 

Lord Acton paused, one hand on the doorknob. "Forwards," he said, matching Alex's tone. "I learned so much about what's to come, only some of which is mine to influence. But… I saw my grandson, my great-grandson. His daughter, only an infant." He smiled, but it was obviously bittersweet. "I won't get to see her again, of course. That isn't how it works. But I had those few months. It was enough."

"Yes," Alex said. He could understand that.

"Do let me know if there is anything you need," Lord Acton said.

Until now, Alex wouldn't have dreamed of asking for anything at all. But he suddenly knew that there was something he wanted quite badly. "May I have some good paper?" he asked. "And a pen."

Lord Acton's face creased into a smile. "Ah," he said. "I understand. I'll have someone bring them down shortly."


	7. February

The writing occupied him for the next few days during his confinement to the larder. It provided a conversation point to ease the awkwardness of those who came in, as well, which was certainly a plus. And there was the challenge of trying to write as a man of the period, keeping his voice as authentic as possible. Ellen was a great help there, and seemed to be pleased to help him; it was the first time that they'd really connected on a personal level and Alex regretted that he hadn't found a way to do it earlier.

He wrote it as a sort of diary, beginning with the day they'd arrived and carrying on with the aim of reaching what was current. A thorough description of the details of plowing, choosing what to plant, sowing, breeding sheep and cows, things Tom would want to know about roofing and mending the pigsty. The trick was writing as if there was a reason to record it all, and in the end he framed it as something for himself, as if he were a city boy, a clerk who'd been sent here (the reason left unspoken) and who wanted to remember it all when he was finally allowed to return home. It wasn't far from the truth, which made things easier. 

When he'd healed enough to move back into the barn – fever broken and chest ache receded into merely a twinge when he moved too quickly – he carried on as best as he could, writing by the light of the lantern until he was too tired to stay awake. Then he would put out the light and climb the ladder into the hayloft, settling into the curl of his blanket and listening to the sound of Peter's soft, even breaths.

The sound was as comforting as it had ever been, perhaps even more so. Things were strange between them; Peter spoke less, especially when they were alone, and in company he kept looking at Alex out of the corner of his eye. Worried about his health, Alex guessed, or maybe grateful for the save and not sure how to show it. Alex could hardly blame him, given that he didn't know how to begin the conversation, either. He hoped to pass his actions off as friendship, if Peter asked, but it was beginning to look like Peter wouldn't ask. 

One night, as Alex climbed up into the hayloft late, he rolled into the blanket only to discover that Peter was still awake.

"You can't take it with you," Peter said without preamble. "The writing. It'll look too modern, it won't be verifiable."

"I'm not taking it with me," Alex said. "I'm leaving it here. Not sure where, yet. In one of the barns, perhaps. They hadn't found it before we arrived on the farm."

"Did you find it already?" Peter asked. "Back then, before we came here." 

Alex knew he could mention the letter, but something held him back. "No," he said, which was the truth. "No, I didn't find it. But I think I will, when we get back, if it's where I left it. Leave it. You know what I mean."

"I know," Peter said, and nothing else. Alex fell asleep still wondering about what the conversation had meant.

\-----

The urge to write didn't lessen. He began to include stories of the family, the village, the rare interaction with Lord Acton that showed how unusual he was, as a landowner. James' romance with Hope, which was progressing slowly but surely; the flaking plaster in the children's bedroom; Ellen and Ruth's worries over the state of the winter garden; Annabelle's dismal sewing; the beginning of the thaw and the pheasants picking at the wheat seeds.

He wrote about Peter, too, though it was difficult to be truthful without revealing that they'd known each other before coming here. Even more difficult to write without mentioning the curl of his hair, the gleam of his smile, the warmth that he seemed to give off at night, even when they were both wrapped in coats and blankets and hay and sleeping several feet away from each other. 

Would people read it and see through his carefully-constructed facade anyway? It wasn't as if anyone thought homosexuality had been invented in 1980 – at least, no serious historians did. But perhaps they would be more interested in the farm work, or the domestic life. Perhaps they'd wonder why this city boy had decided to write down his life. Perhaps they'd think the project was about love for someone at home, which wasn't, Alex reflected, entirely untrue.

He wondered what he would see, the next time he picked up a period text. Every historian wanted to understand the stories of the past. But would it be different now that he'd lived it? Would he have some closer insight? Or would he only ever see himself in them, trapped by his own experiences? Maybe that was all he'd ever seen.

\-----

Sleet came again; when it passed, it left behind only a faint crunch of ice on the grass as each morning's dew gathered and froze. There was wind, too, piercing through even the smallest gap in clothing, down into the slim space between Alex's muffler and the collar of his coat. He wore thick gloves and two shirts under the coat, and he was shivering nonetheless as he and Peter walked out into the field behind the barn to begin checking on the animals. 

The chickens complained the loudest but it was the cattle that obviously felt the cold most, going skittish when approached as if anticipating a touch that would disturb their carefully-constructed huddle. Alex went towards them carefully, as much for his own footing as for any consideration for the cattle themselves, but some of them _did_ look decidedly mutinous.

"Alex…" Peter sounded wary as well. 

Still, it needed to get done. Alex took another step, and another, but as he touched the closest cow it shied away abruptly, and after one stretched out moment they were all moving, a great confused mass of mooing and grunting and shoving against each other. Alex tried to scramble backwards but slipped on the ice, flailing an arm out for balance and knocking against another cow by accident. It kicked out and Alex flung himself back – not far enough. But before the kick connected, Peter's hand grabbed the back of Alex's coat and dragged him away, back and back across the icy grass until they reached the fence and fumbled through the gate.

"What were you doing?" Peter said sharply. "Are you _that_ fond of having your ribs broken?" He let go of Alex's coat and took two shaky steps back, breathing hard.

"Things have to get done," Alex said, as reasonably as he could, although he was still trembling a little. He put his hands behind him, resting them on the second rail of the fence for support. The cows were still making an outrageous racket; he'd have been worried about the damage they were doing to each other if his pulse hadn't been hammering so hard.

"Just like you had to act like a human mattress by that bloody hay rick?"

Alex suddenly understood. "Yes," he said firmly. "Just like that. Back then even more than now. I had to, you know that. I had to."

"Why?" Peter said, but he didn't give Alex time to answer. "This is _real_ , Alex. It's not a dream, it's not some virtual reality Oregon Trail where you can do whatever the fuck you like and then restart without facing the consequences."

"What was I supposed to do, then? Let you bash your bloody head in?"

"Yes," Peter said. "Yes, if it meant I didn't have to watch you die."

His voice cracked on the last word. Alex stared at him in shock, wondering if he dared interpret that the way he wanted – and then he remembered the letter, remembered its final line at last. _When he says it's real, you'll know._

He did know. "Peter." 

Peter's face shuttered; he flushed and took another few shaky steps backwards. "Don't make it more than it is," he said.

"Don't you dare make it anything less," Alex snapped, and he let go of the fence and crossed the space between them all in a rush. Peter had a good forty pounds on him, and was stronger besides, but he didn't resist when Alex grabbed him by the lapels. "Don't make it less," Alex said again, and then he pulled Peter in and kissed him.

It was good kiss right from the first. Peter was surprised but eager, grabbing at Alex's waist and then sticking his hands into the pockets of Alex's coat to tug him in closer. His mouth was a hot contrast to the angry chill of the wind and Alex could see the way his eyelids dipped closed and then open again. Alex wanted to kiss them, wanted to taste Peter's jaw and cheek and ear, the dip of his collar bone, his callused palms, the soft bulk of his stomach, his hip, his thigh. "Peter," he said. "Peter— let me, let me—"

"Yes."

Alex pulled him inside the barn and they scrambled up the ladder into the hayloft. Then into their sleeping nook, tugging off Ruth's mufflers and their coats and the shirts underneath. Alex had Peter's sheep carving hung around his neck, and Peter stopped to touch it for a long, aching moment before he raised his eyes to Alex's in the half-light. "Alex," he said helplessly. "You—"

"Of course."

Peter leaned in to kiss him again, and Alex moved to meet him, and then there was nothing but this, nothing but the two of them together.

\----- 

Afterwards, when Alex was covered in sweat and chaff, he set his forehead down on Peter's bare shoulder and just breathed. He could feel Peter's heartbeat racing.

"Don't you dare do that again," Peter said, his voice low and shaky. Alex knew he didn't mean the roll in the hay.

"No promises," he said. "But if you stop falling off things, I'll do my best."


	8. March

As the month turned and the weather warmed, they re-plastered the bedroom upstairs. Alex had known this was coming, but he didn't know when, didn't know whether he'd get to do it himself or he'd have to ask James to do it for him after they'd gone. He was glad to have it happen this way, glad to be able to put the letter in with his own hands.

"Can't believe we have to do this twice," Peter grumbled, but he seemed to be enjoying himself anyway. He'd taken to singing songs while they worked, terrible pun versions based on farming. _I wanna wash that man right out of my hair_ became _I wanna wash that manure out of my hair_ and _Someday I'll find you_ became _Some hay, I'll bind you_. And then _I wonder who's kissing her now_ became _I wonder who's kissing her plow_ , which seemed filthy in a way that Alex couldn't quite describe. He tried, though, and it left Peter laughing so hard that he choked on the plaster dust and had to go downstairs for a drink of water.

Alex took the opportunity to slip the letter out of his pocket. It took a minute to remember just exactly where he'd found it – outside wall, on the north end – and he was so absorbed in wedging it in carefully that he didn't notice Peter's steps coming back up the stairs.

"Is that what you found?" Peter said quietly, and Alex startled. 

"Yeah," he said, knowing he both looked and sounded guilty. 

"I thought there must have been something." He sat down next to Alex. "Don't suppose you want to tell me what it says."

"It's not— it wasn't—" Alex didn't want him to think that the letter had been explicit, that he'd known about Peter's feelings all along. He took a deep breath. "It tells me to believe all of this." He waved a hand to indicate their situation. "And about the hay rick, sort of. And… it says that when you say this is real, I'll know. Nothing more specific than that." He'd struggled over the wording when he wrote it, trying to match it to what he remembered and eventually deciding that he could only do his best and assume it would come out right. If that was how the circularity of this thing worked, then how could it do otherwise? "What about you? Did you find something?"

"No," Peter said. "But that's all right. I learned what I needed to learn." He tipped his head in Alex's direction, then said, "Go on, stick it in there and let's cover it over."

"I'm going to stick it in, am I?" Alex said, waggling his eyebrows.

Peter snorted, then reached over and pushed the letter down into the wall before reaching for his trowel.

\----

The weather thawed fully at last. With the plastering done, he and Peter spent more time in the fields, monitoring the growing wheat and potatoes for any signs of frost damage or blight. It would have been nicer if they were together, but Alex liked the work even on his own. He had started to think about going home, but he didn't want to lose this either: the air full of growing green scent, the warm morning light, the fresh vegetables that had begun to appear at supper. He didn't want to lose the Bennetts, who had become more family than friends. He didn't want to lose his sleeping hollow in the barn, as uncomfortable as it was. It was close to Peter.

They hadn't talked about it – the two of them, the three of them – and so Alex wasn't quite surprised when he came out of the stable one afternoon to find Peter and Ruth standing together at the fence by the yard, looking out over the fields. They both seemed… peaceful. Alex stepped up to stand at Peter's shoulder. Neither Ruth nor Peter spoke, and suddenly Alex wondered – what if they loved this place as much as he had come to? What if they loved it more?

"Do you not want to go home, then?" he blurted. Both of them turned to look at him – the incredulous expressions on their faces went a long way towards soothing his anxieties.

"Of course I want to go home," Peter said. "Idiot."

" _Really_ , Alex," said Ruth.

"Well, I don't know." Alex sounded defensive and he knew it. "You seem happy here." He looked away. "Both of you."

"I am happy," said Peter. "It's a good place. It's been good to me. But I want…" He paused; Alex held his breath waiting for what would come next. Would Peter be sick of farming entirely, would he back out of the project or keep on but be miserable for the next year? Would it he want to slip back into their old lives, want things between them to exist only in this isolated bubble of time? Would he want to forget? 

"I want toothpaste," Peter said at last.

"Toothpaste?" Alex said.

"Toothpaste," Peter confirmed. "Brushing my teeth with charcoal is absolutely disgusting."

"Well, yes," said Alex, feeling a smile begin to spread over his face. On Peter's other side, Ruth was grinning. "True. What else?"

"Pizza," Peter said promptly. "I know we won't have it on the farm, but we can sneak out to town once a month or so, I'm sure. I want more books. I want _your_ book, wherever you've hidden it." 

It was on a high shelf in the back of the furthest barn, inside a canister labeled 'Doctor Faber's Patent Colic Pills.' Only Lord Acton knew it was there.

"Ruth?" Peter asked.

"Tampons," she said succinctly. Alex laughed. "What about you, then?" she asked him. 

"An inside flush toilet for the middle of the night," he admitted. "I was feeling guilty, back then, about sleeping in the more modernized house instead of our show cottage. But I'm desperate to get back to it now. I can live with the period toilets during the day, but at night with a bedpan it's dire."

"You boys have it easy, you know," said Ruth. "You can just go out the door of the hayloft if you want to. If I could do that, I wouldn't care two figs about the state of the plumbing."

"At my age," Alex said, "the plumbing isn't always what it used to be."

"At your age!" said Ruth, outraged. "You're a spring chicken!" 

Alex made a chicken noise, just to be irritating. Ruth reached across Peter to smack him on the shoulder.

"You know what else I want?" Peter said, blatantly trying to distract them.

"What?" said Alex. 

"I want to go back to where the only person around for us to scandalize is Ruth." He gave Alex a grin.

"I don't scandalize easily," Ruth said.

"We'll have to be creative, then." He leaned his shoulder against Alex's and gave him a nudge.

"I think we can do that," said Alex, nudging back. 

"Oh, lord," said Ruth, sighing, but when he looked over she was smiling.

\-----

Three days later, they walked down to the stones after sunset and one last celebratory supper. This time their path was lit by lanterns – one carried by James, another by Billy. Ellen half-supported Thomas, whose mouth was wide with yawning; Annabelle stepped carefully, obviously determined to keep herself awake and upright by sheer force of will.

As they reached the edge of the trees, everyone stopped to say their farewells. Ellen went to Ruth first; Alex briefly wondered if she would ask her to stay, since they'd grown so close over the months. But either she understood instinctively why Ruth had to return or they'd had the conversation already, because all she did was set Thomas down, gently, and give her a firm hug. 

"Tell them about me," she said. Ruth nodded. 

"I will."

Eve and Catherine, Alex supposed that was. He had no idea whether they'd believe it. Ruth must have thought so, or else she wouldn't have agreed. Perhaps she'd told them all sorts of impossible things over the years, and this was only a drop in the bucket.

He had no more time to think about it, because James and Billy had turned to him to say goodbye. Billy clapped him on the shoulder. "Take care," he said, with characteristic shortness. "Mind you do that plastering proper when you get back." 

Alex nodded. "I will."

"And don't let the horses get away with too much," said James, which made Alex wince. 

"I'll have help," he said.

"You'd better," said James, and both he and Billy guffawed at that.

Then it was Old Bill's turn, and the other two gave way immediately. Bill held out his hand. "You've been a good worker," he said gruffly. It was high praise; perhaps the highest. "Even if your singing's bad enough to frighten a lamb back into its mother's belly."

Alex laughed. "Thanks for giving me real work to do," he said. "Good work. Not just the easy stuff. I appreciate it." Bill gave him an approving look, and they shook hands.

Ellen was next. She gave Alex a brief hug and said, "I gave Ruth the recipe for those preserves you like."

"Thank you," said Alex. "And thank you for letting me into your family." She gave him another hug at that, harder this time, and then moved aside with a smile to let Annabelle stand in front of him.

Annabelle stared at him for a long moment, unspeaking. Alex waited her out, and was glad of it when she said, abruptly, "I've named a chicken after you. She hatched this morning." 

Alex grinned. "I'll do the same, when I get home," he said. "Annabelle the chicken shall rule over the coop."

"Good," she said, solemn but for the faint smile that passed over her face. "And don't break your ribs again," she added. "Someone'll have to look after you, and it's dull."

"I'll do my best," said Alex. It occurred to him that this was the second person to whom he'd promised to be careful. Perhaps he'd see her again someday. Perhaps she would come walking out from between the stones in the twenty first century and be as astonished by the future as he had been by her time. He hoped so. Annabelle shrugged, then turned away, but Alex knew it was only that she'd run out of questions, that she'd said everything that needed saying.

At last, it was just him and Peter and Ruth. They walked the last few feet together and stood around the easternmost stone, joining hands. Ruth cleared her throat.

"This is the blessed vernal night," she said, "when palest stones shall give us light. To see our souls, both full and bright. This life our gift, yet more to give – from old to new, thus let us live."


	9. September

The air was cold again, but Alex felt it less than he remembered. He was wearing gloves now; on either side of him, Ruth and Peter were, too. Alex looked up. The moon was there, full and round, looking down with kindness. Peter squeezed his hand. Alex squeezed back.

"I don't dare let go," Ruth confessed.

"Me neither," said Alex.

"On three?" said Peter. "Taking it in turn?"

"All right."

"Yeah."

"One," Peter said.

Alex took a deep breath. "Two."

"Three," Ruth said. Alex opened his hands and let his arms drop.

Absolutely nothing happened. All three of them burst into laughter.

"Well," said Ruth. "That certainly was an anticlimax. But I rather think I prefer that, just at the moment."

"It was—" Alex groped suddenly under his muffler, pushing the fabric away until he could reach the little carved sheep, hung around his neck just where he'd been careful to tie it. "It was," he said again, as if that would explain everything.

"I'm glad," said Ruth.

"Yes," said Peter, and then his hands were gripping the ends of Alex's muffler, pulling him in close. "Ruth, you have three seconds before scandalizing happens."

Ruth huffed, but she turned her back politely. Alex registered the fact with amusement; a moment later the thought was gone, lost to the urgency of Peter's kiss, the warmth of his mouth and the way he shivered when Alex put his arms around his waist. Alex groaned.

"Alex," Peter murmured. He kissed the corner of Alex's mouth, his jaw, open-mouthed, almost more tasting his skin than kissing him.

"I'm here," Alex said softly. "We're here."

They only broke apart at the sound of footsteps. With the moon this bright, it was easy to see the motion of the trees as someone came closer, but then there was the light of a lantern as well, coming into view. In the halo of the lantern was a man; it was Rupert – thin-faced, smiling, _familiar_ Rupert Acton. And behind him, leaning carefully on his cane, was Mr. Acton himself. "Well," he said, giving them all a benevolent look. "Welcome home."


End file.
